


Color Theory

by VelkynKarma



Series: Parallel by Proxy [7]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Everyone tries to help, Gen, Kuron (Voltron)-centric, Kuron is Shiro (Voltron)'s Clone, but everyone's advice is bad, some mentions of a prior illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-04
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-04-18 05:59:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14206632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VelkynKarma/pseuds/VelkynKarma
Summary: Ryou has finally been approved for combat, and he'll be joining the team in the next big mission. There's just one catch: he still hasn't chosen his armor color.





	Color Theory

**Author's Note:**

> For PlatonicVLD Week, Spring Edition! Day four prompt, "Individual." 
> 
> Also some special thanks to Bosstoaster for helping me finalize some color choices :)

“Hey. Ryou. Got a second?”  
  
Ryou looks up just in time to catch the water pouch Shiro tosses his way, which puts an abrupt end to his training drills. “I guess I do now,” he observes. “What did you need?” He pokes the straw into the hole of the water pouch and helps himself as he regards Shiro curiously.  
  
“We have a ground mission in three quintents,” Shiro says. “Base infiltration. We’ll need all hands on deck, and I don’t want anyone going without at least one partner for backup. Coran approved you for combat, so if you think you’re ready…”  
  
“I’m ready,” Ryou says confidently. If he’s honest, he’s been dying to get back in the field in the past two spicolian movements, ever since Coran officially approved him for all Voltron work. But while there have been plenty of missions since, most of them have been Voltron related. Ryou’s helped with coordination efforts on the bridge, but that’s about it. Although he can technically pilot the Black Lion, Shiro is the obvious choice between the two when it comes to needing Voltron.   
  
He’s not bitter. It’s the best choice. But he’s been itching to get involved again, to contribute in his own way, to prove that he _can_ , and it sounds like now’s _finally_ his chance.  
  
“Okay,” Shiro says. He looks—well, maybe a bit _less_ enthused about Ryou getting into the field, but Ryou’s not really surprised by that. After the Xencherak debacle, he’s come to understand where Shiro’s overprotectiveness came from. He _is_ trying, so Ryou doesn’t push. “Good. Then I’ll start working on tactics that include you. It’ll be good to have someone else who’s ranged…Lance and Hunk can’t cover everybody.”  
  
“I’m happy to be of service,” Ryou says, and he means it. It’s something he can do that very few of the others can, not even Shiro. It feels good to have that kind of distinction.   
  
“Good,” Shiro says. “But you have a job to do, too, in the meantime. You still need armor.”  
  
Ryou’s good mood grinds to a halt. He uses all of Shiro’s not-inconsiderable skill to keep it from showing on his face.  
  
“You’ll need to talk to Coran or Allura to get that set up,” Shiro continues, apparently not noticing Ryou’s discomfort. “It’s been a while since you’ve worn the armor, not counting when you borrowed mine. You’ll want a day to break it in and get used to yours if you can. Let them know what color you want and I’m sure they can set you right up.”   
  
“Right,” Ryou agrees automatically.   
  
He must not do as good a job hiding his discomfort in his voice, because Shiro raises an eyebrow at him. “Problem?” he asks slowly.  
  
“No.”  
  
“Ryou…”  
  
“No problem,” Ryou insists. “I’ll get it taken care of, I promise. I’ll even have you spar with me to break in the armor. How’s that sound? You can assure yourself I am fully armored and as safe as I’m ever going to be out on my first actual approved mission back.”   
  
The distraction seems to work, which means Ryou figured out at least part of Shiro’s concern. “Okay,” Shiro agrees. “I’ll hold you to it. Two quintents from now, then. Sparring match.” He smiles a little. “I look forward to seeing what color you picked.”   
  
“It’s a secret,” Ryou agrees. “It’ll be a surprise.”   
  
A surprise to even himself, if he’s honest. There’s a reason Shiro hasn’t heard what color he’s picked—he hasn’t picked one.   
  
He’s thought about it plenty of times, ever since Shiro told him to make a choice for when he’s back on missions. At first he thought it would be easy. A chance to choose a color for his armor, when none of the other paladins had the opportunity—it was a perfect chance to help himself establish his own identity more. He’s still working on figuring out all the bits and pieces of who Ryou Shirogane is, but his own unique color to identify him would be a great start.  
  
Except it’s _hard._ He’d figured it would be so simple, with the ability to choose almost anything he wanted, but more options mean more choices and he has no idea what choice to pick. He’s gone through dozens of colors and nothing feels _right._ He has no idea what color is _him_ , other than ‘not black.’   
  
He’s probably overthinking it, honestly. But it feels like it has to be just right. He could change it later if he wanted, but that would feel like failing, or like he made a mistake about himself, and then he’d just feel stupid. But he can’t figure it out, so he’s just been pushing it off for later.  
  
Well, now later’s here. He’s got two quintents to figure it out, and one way or another, he’d better have an answer by then.   
  
But he hasn’t figured out the answer in weeks of deliberation on his own. And since he’s running low on time…  
  
Well, that means it’s probably time to ask for a little help.

* * *

  
  
“Hey, Lance? Can I ask you a quick question?”  
  
Honestly, Ryou isn’t entirely sure why he goes to Lance, first. Maybe it’s because Lance, of all of them, seems to have the strongest opinions on physical appearances. Not that anyone else on the team is a slob by a long shot, and Ryou certainly takes his presentation seriously. But for Lance it’s not just a matter of how he presents himself—it’s _fun,_ and enjoyment.  
  
If anyone might have a good idea on how to pick a personal color, Lance certainly would, right?   
  
“Sure, if you don’t mind—ack, no no no, dodge, dodge, aw _crap_ —waiting for this boss battle,” Lance says. His tongue is set between his teeth, and his whole body is a mess of tension where he’s sitting cross-legged on the floor of his quarters. His fingers click frantically on the many buttons of the _Mercury Gameflux II’s_ controller as he struggles with the game.   
  
“Don’t summon Aquara,” Ryou says idly, as he watches Lance flick through the game menus to select his next character’s action. “Summon Flarius. This boss is weak to fire magic.”  
  
“What? How do you know?”  
  
“Two levels back, you found a bunch of those scrolls in the dungeon that talked about how much he hated the sun,” Ryou says. “It’s an old game, so that would be considered enough of a clue, right?”  
  
Lance tries his suggestion, and the damage dealt to the boss is significant. “Hey, good catch! I think maybe we’ll live through this. I’m surprised you caught that though…you’re _sure_ Shiro’s not secretly a gamer?”  
  
“Positive,” Ryou says. Even if his illness had scorched a number of Shiro’s old memories, he’s sure he would have remembered _something_ if Shiro had been into video games. Ryou’s not exactly a gamer, either, but he does have Shiro’s tactical combat prowess—and go figure, the ability to plan for a fight applies strangely well to turn-based RPG’s just as much as high stakes dogfights.   
  
Lance manages to beat the game boss with that one bit of advice, although narrowly. Once he finds a place to save, he finally turns to Ryou. “Okay, you had a question?”  
  
“Yeah. I’ll be joining you guys on the mission in a few quintents—“  
  
“Really?” Lance grins. “Finally back at it? Great! We need more sniper representation on the team.”  
  
“And I’ll put your lessons to good use, I’m sure,” Ryou promises. Lance can always use a little bit of encouragement here and there, just so he feels good about his place on the team. “But that also means I need armor, and I ah…don’t actually have a color yet.”  
  
“Oh.” Lance looks puzzled by that. “Then what did you want to ask me?”  
  
“Well…” Ryou gives him a sheepish look. “How would you go about picking a color?”  
  
Lance grins. “Oh, that’s easy. Just pick your favorite.”  
  
Ryou blinks. “Hmm?”  
  
“I mean, you don’t have to go with a Lion color, right? You’re kinda lucky, in a way. You can choose whatever you want,” Lance says. He waves his hand grandly. “Deck yourself out in your favorite shade of any color you like.”  
  
Ryou frowns at that. “Why am I lucky? Don’t you like your blue?”  
  
“Oh, I like my armor, don’t get me wrong. Blue is even my favorite color,” Lance says. “But if I could pick, I’d go for a different shade. The exact shade of the ocean at Veradero Beach.” He sighs, half dreamy, half wistful. “It’s beautiful. I wish you could see it.”  
  
“Sorry. I’ve never been,” Ryou admits. “Well. Shiro hasn’t been. At least, I’m pretty sure. I could have forgotten that.”  
  
“When we get back to Earth, you’ll have to see it,” Lance says. “Anyway, point is, you can do whatever you want! It’s not like you have to color coordinate. And with half the armor being white, you don’t have to worry about stealth or anything. So just pick your favorite. May as well fight in what you like, right?”  
  
Ryou considers. It’s not bad advice, actually, but…well, if he’s honest, he’s not sure _what_ his favorite color is. He’s never really thought about it. Shiro has a preference for darker colors, and Ryou finds those more appealing when it comes to choosing clothing, at least. But there isn’t any one color that really stands out to him as one he’d like to claim.  
  
It’s not bad advice. It just doesn’t really apply to him.   
  
But he appreciates the help anyway, so he pats Lance on the shoulder as he gets up to head for the door. “Thanks, Lance,” he says. “That gives me something to think about, at least.”  
  
“No prob. Happy to help. I can’t wait to see what you pick,” Lance says, grinning.  
  
Neither can Ryou. He wonders how long it’ll take to figure it out.  
  


* * *

  
  
Ryou pokes his head into the kitchen and finally manages to locate Hunk, in the middle of what appears to be a small culinary explosion. His question immediately dies on his tongue, and is replaced by another one:   
  
“Need some help?”  
  
“Ryou!” Hunk looks up from chopping and grinding whatever his latest concoction is. Ryou takes an appreciative sniff—something spicy, and a little tangy. “Hey. Uh, yeah, sure, if you have time. I lost track of time in my workshop and now I’m totally behind on dinner.”  
  
“I’m here to help,” Ryou says cheerfully. “What do you want me working on?” He doesn’t quite have Hunk’s imaginative and creative flair for cooking, but ever since he’d learned—and then re-learned—how to do it properly, he’s found food preparation oddly soothing and meditative. All he’d been planning to do was stew over his color choices anyway. He can do that here as well as anywhere else.   
  
“I need a marinade for those steaks we got at the last market,” Hunk says, returning to chopping and grinding ingredients for whatever it is he’s working on. “They’re in the fridge.”  
  
“Sure. What kind? Zesty, spicy, sweet?”  
  
“Not spicy—this pasta will be, don’t want to overload it,” Hunk says, gesturing to whatever it is he’s working on.   
  
“I’ve got it,” Ryou says, pulling out the ingredients.   
  
For a time Ryou’s content to listen to Hunk’s rambling about his day as they both work on preparing their respective parts of dinner. Ryou marinades the steaks and moves on to chopping vegetables as Hunk goes on about his latest project, and complains about the Holts tag-teaming him on procedure (“Double-modulating…can you believe it? What a waste of time!”). Most of it goes over Ryou’s head, but he’s content enough to listen. He’s gotten a lot closer to Hunk than Shiro had been, after spending so much time with him in the kitchen learning the ins and outs of food prep, and the atmosphere is comfortable and relaxed.   
  
But eventually Hunk’s rambling slows down as he becomes more comfortable with the state of dinner (now on time, thanks to the extra pair of hands), and Ryou gets back to the reason he’d been looking for Hunk in the first place. “Can I get your opinion on something?”  
  
“Sure,” Hunk says. “What’s up? Something wrong?”  
  
“Yes, but nothing to be concerned about,” Ryou says. He explains about being on-call for the mission in just a few quintents, and how he still doesn’t have an armor color chosen. With Hunk, he’s willing to go into a little more detail about how no color has really felt quite right to him, yet. Hunk’s a good listener, even if he can occasionally be nosy or sarcastic, and it doesn’t feel as weird to go into more detail with him as it would with Lance.   
  
“Lance suggested going with my favorite color,” he finishes, “But I don’t think I have one. Nothing that stands out to me, anyway. I remember some of what Shiro prefers, but…” He shrugs.  
  
“I mean, that’s not _that_ weird,” Hunk says, as he starts stirring something in one of the pots on the stove. “You don’t have to have a favorite _everything.”_   
  
“No, but it doesn’t get me any closer to picking an armor color,” Ryou says. “What would you do?”  
  
Hunk shrugs. “I mean, I guess I’ve never really thought about it. I’ve got the Yellow Lion, so I’ve got yellow armor. I guess I’m just fine with that and never really thought about changing it. But I guess if you don’t have a favorite color to use, maybe use something else that’s your favorite?”  
  
Ryou frowns. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Like…” Hunk casts around for an example, and finally gestures around at the kitchen with the large spoon he’d been stirring with. “Like, pick your favorite food, say, and use it’s color instead. Or, I don’t know, your favorite sports team, or animal, or season, or something.”   
  
Ryou considers. Again, it’s not really terrible advice, but the more he thinks about it, the more he’s sort of lacking for ‘favorite’ anythings. His memories of Earth animals and sports teams and the like are borrowed and in some cases faded and spotty at best—if Shiro even had any to begin with. None of those are really _Ryou’s,_ so it’s hard to pick anything, when he has no personal association to it and his impressions of liking those things or not aren’t even really his.   
  
What little he does have available to him, like different foods to try, don’t really stick out to him enough to warrant choosing an armor color off of them. He likes _cooking_ , and _making_ the food, but ‘cooking’ doesn’t really have a color that goes with it.  
  
It’s quite a headache inducer, all around. Ryou doesn’t feel any closer to making a choice. He _does_ feel a lot closer to his second identity crisis. Why doesn’t he have more favorite things? He needs to figure out more favorite things. Favorite things are a _staple_ of identity.   
  
Why is being his own person so damn _hard?_   
  
“Did that help?” Hunk asks, oblivious to the wheels spinning in Ryou’s head.   
  
“It certainly gave me something to think about,” Ryou says, not untruthfully. “Thanks for the input.”  
  
Hunk beams at him. “Great! Happy to help. I can’t wait to see what color you pick!”   
  
Hunk, and everyone else, apparently. Ryou hadn’t even realized it was a talking point, but that just makes it all the more important to choose _just_ the right color.   
  
Now if only the choice wasn’t so nerve-wracking.

* * *

  
  
“Hey. Ryou. Something wrong?”  
  
Ryou hadn’t meant to catch Keith’s attention. It’s long after dinner and most of the team is starting to wind down after a long day, and Ryou had just been thinking to himself. This time of night, Keith’s usually running a training session against the gladiator; Ryou hadn’t even expected to see him in the lounge.   
  
He certainly didn’t have any intention of bringing his armor color issues to Keith, either. Keith’s a great kid—Ryou’s borrowed memories from Shiro and his own memories as himself agree on that point—but fashion advice is hardly his forte. Even if it was, Ryou wouldn’t want to bother him with it when he’s got a dozen other things to deal with.  
  
But even if Ryou is definitely not Shiro anymore, he still shares a great deal of body language unconsciously—and he sometimes forgets that Keith is, and always has been, exceptional at reading it. That had never really been a problem before his illness, because he and Keith had been awkward around each other at best, with neither one really sure of how to treat the other. But something must have changed about their dynamic while Ryou had been ill, because Keith still has pinpoint accuracy on exactly when Ryou isn’t at his best, and is no longer afraid to call him on it.   
  
It’s almost endearing, and familiar in a distant sort of way, reminiscent of Shiro’s memories while being distinctly their own thing. Still, Ryou wishes he remembers what the hell had happened to change the dynamic to begin with.  
  
“Nothing’s wrong,” Ryou promises, when Keith continues to stand there and wait for an answer.  
  
Keith narrows his eyes, just slightly. “You’re lying,” he says, after a moment.  
  
It’s really not fair, that Keith can read him so easily. He idly makes a note in the back of his head to see if it’s even possible to teach yourself new body language and expressions. His illness hadn’t managed to wipe those—only the _useful_ things, like walking. Because nothing could ever be convenient.   
  
“It’s really not that important,” Ryou says. “Just thinking about the mission in a few quintents.” Not exactly a lie, and he’s hoping that’ll let him skate past the Keith lie detector.   
  
It does, sort of, but Keith frowns at the answer anyway. “Shiro mentioned you’d be joining us,” he says. “Do you not feel up to it? I could talk to him if you don’t think you’re ready.”  
  
Ryou fights back an exasperated sigh. Whatever made Keith more willing to ask him if he was feeling okay was something of a double-edged sword—no blade puns intended. Ryou doesn’t really remember the details, but Keith’s takeaway from Ryou’s illness had mirrored Shiro’s significantly. Based on Shiro’s reaction, he can take a guess at where Keith’s sudden overprotective streak towards him came from, of course. He’s been told Keith was one of the few people he could remember and respond to when he’d been sick, second only to Shiro himself. That meant Keith had dealt with Ryou a lot when he’d been completely helpless and vulnerable.   
  
But it’s still frustrating and baffling for Ryou all the same, for Keith to have gone from pseudo-younger brother, to awkward coworker, to suddenly acting like a protective older sibling. Ryou has a feeling they’ll need to have the same talk he and Shiro had, about dialing back the mother hen tendencies, before they get into any serious missions.   
  
But for now, he keeps it simple. “No, nothing like that. I’m looking forward to the mission. It’ll feel good to be productive again, and to know I can cover everyone’s backs.”   
  
“Okay,” Keith says slowly. “Then what’s bothering you?”  
  
He doesn’t bother to try denying it, which would just be a waste of time for both of them at this point, and they both know it. “It’s stupid,” he admits, “but I’m trying to figure out what my armor color should be.”  
  
Keith blinks at him once, and then says, “Oh.”  
  
“Yeah,” Ryou agrees. “Lance and Hunk both suggested picking a color based on my favorite things, but I don’t really have any. Most of it’s Shiro’s. Most of his tastes just seem right, anyway. But I can’t wear black armor—that’s not me anymore, that’s him. It was never really mine.” He sighs. “I don’t know. I’ll figure it out eventually.”   
  
Keith considers this with a surprising amount of care, like it’s a particularly difficult philosophical question, before finally asking, “Why is it so important to not choose something Shiro would?”  
  
Ryou blinks at him. “Huh? Why would it not be?”  
  
Keith shrugs. “I don’t know. It just seems like you’re stressing over trying to pick something that’s very different from Shiro because you think you have to, when you’re not even happy with that.”   
  
Ryou puzzles over that one for a moment. It’s not entirely wrong, he supposes. He’s pretty sure most of the impressions and likes and dislikes in his head are linked to Shiro more than things he himself has developed the majority of the time, but they don’t really feel wrong. Then again, he’s not sure if he’s okay with those preferences because they’re things he himself, as Ryou, determined that he liked as well, or if he likes them because Shiro did and that never went away.   
  
His head is far too confusing for his own good, sometimes.   
  
“Okay,” Ryou says after a moment. “Suppose that’s true. What would your suggestion be for how to pick a color, then?”  
  
Keith shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe pick a color that works well with Shiro’s black? Then you can be comfortable without being identical.”   
  
“Like what?”  
  
“Opposite, maybe? You could go white.”  
  
Ryou makes a face. “Half the armor is already white. I’d be a stormtrooper. No, thanks.”  
  
“Okay. Gray, maybe? Still kind of the same.”   
  
That sounds awful too, if Ryou’s honest. He already hates the fact that his hair’s going gray when he’s biologically only halfway through his twenties. The last thing he needs is to choose armor that draws attention to the remnants of his illness. “No. That doesn’t feel right, either.”   
  
“Purple, maybe. You can still fly the Black Lion, right? It might be black, but all its displays are purple.”   
  
That one feels a little less immediately _wrong,_ maybe because Ryou has more of a connection to it than the other colors. But it doesn’t really feel like it’s _his_ color. Shiro has more of a claim to purple, too, between being the real paladin for the Black Lion, and his own Galra hand. Similar likes and dislikes are one thing, but purple is more Shiro’s, and Ryou isn’t interested in stealing anything important to him.   
  
“No,” Ryou sighs. “That’s not it.”   
  
Keith looks like he’s out of suggestions, but not quite ready to give up the fight yet. “I’m sure there’s something,” he says. “You could ask Shiro. Maybe he’d have some ideas.”  
  
“I’m hoping to surprise him with the color,” Ryou admits. And besides, the last thing he should probably be doing is going to Shiro to ask for help deciding on his own mark of individuality. If he can’t even pick a color for himself on his own, without Shiro’s help, how can he ever expect to be somebody different?   
  
“It’s alright, Keith,” Ryou adds, when Keith looks at a loss for what else to say. “You’ve still given me a lot to think about. You had a good point. I’ll figure it out. I just need to think on it a little.”  
  
“Okay,” Keith says. “Well. Good luck figuring it out, then. Whatever you pick, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”   
  
That’s easy for him to say. _He’s_ not the one choosing, and his choice isn’t being eagerly watched by what is starting to feel like the entire team.   
  
Well, stewing won’t help matters, any. It’s late; Ryou will sleep on it. Maybe tomorrow and a good night’s rest will offer a little more perspective on the problem. 

* * *

  
  
Sleeping on the question doesn’t really help. If anything, it makes it worse, because Ryou spends at couple hours turning it over and over in his head while laying in bed, all without any resolution—or rest. Which means he wakes up in the morning feeling tired and cranky, and not even for an acceptable reason, like ‘nightmares’ or ‘sore from training.’  
  
“I am overthinking this,” he tells himself tiredly in the kitchen. He doesn’t even feel like expending much energy to cook something decent for breakfast, and ends up only getting himself a bowl of food goo.   
  
“Overthinking what?”  
  
Ryou blinks, and slowly looks over his shoulder. Pidge is standing in the doorway, adjusting her glasses as she yawns. There are dark lines under her eyes, and she looks a little wobbly on her feet.  
  
Despite himself, Ryou frowns, and adopts the lecturing tone he knows Shiro is known for by the rest of the team. “Did you sleep last night?”  
  
“Did _you_ sleep last night?” Pidge shoots back, crossing her arms in a huff.   
  
“I laid down in my bunk,” Ryou says. “I have a feeling you didn’t even get that far. Project?”  
  
“Yes,” Pidge admits, yawning again. “Just getting some food goo, and then I’ll go to bed for a few hours. No major training today since we’ve got that mission coming up in two quintents.”   
  
Ryou groans. The mission is in two quintents. That means he’s got to have his color by tomorrow, in time for his spar with Shiro. Why is this so freakishly _complicated?_   
  
“So what are you overthinking?” Pidge asks, climbing up on the counter to sit. Ryou pushes a fresh bowl of food goo and a spoon into her hands and points at it insistently, and she grumbles as she scoops up a mouthful.   
  
Maybe it’s the fact that they’re both so tired, but Ryou shares before he thinks better of it. “Armor color,” he says, retrieving his own spoon. “I’m on the mission too and I still don’t have a color.”  
  
Pidge stares at him over the bowl of food goo. “What? Really? What have you tried so far?”  
  
“I haven’t tried anything,” Ryou admits. He sketches out his conversations with Lance, Hunk and Keith briefly, outlining their suggestions, while Pidge wolfs down her food goo. “But nothing’s really felt like it was right,” Ryou finishes with a sigh. “And I need to pick a color _today.”_   
  
“Well, obviously those were wrong,” Pidge says, scoffing. “I mean, Hunk and Lance, okay, not terrible. But Keith’s suggestion! Ugh. You can just tell he’s an only child.”  
  
Ryou gives her a puzzled frown. “What does that have to do with anything?”  
  
“You’ve got sibling rivalry going down,” Pidge says sagely. “Trust me, I know. Keith’s suggestion? Totally the wrong way to go.”  
  
Ryou stares at her, bemused. He’s not sure that’s the problem at all. He doesn’t have any particular rivalry with Shiro, and they’re not actually siblings, anyway. That’s only a cover story they use for public spaces, to explain why they look the same, when the general public wouldn’t take so kindly to the ‘Galra-created stealth clone’ truth.   
  
“You’re going to have to explain this one to me,” he says, finally.  
  
Pidge rolls her eyes. “It’s not obvious? You can’t just imitate Shiro, or play off of his color. That just makes you a matched set, with him taking the lead. And that’s dumb!” She gestures emphatically with her spoon at Ryou. “You’re a younger sibling, like me. That means you’ve gotta work to _stand out,_ and not let the older one take all the glory.”  
  
There’s a lot of things Ryou could say to this, but he finally settles on a perplexed, “Why am I the younger one?”  
  
“I mean, you’re literally the youngest one here,” Pidge says. “You can’t be more than what, two?”   
  
“I’m biologically identical in age to Shiro, and he’s older than all of you except the Alteans,” Ryou says, a little put out.   
  
“Whatever. He acts like the older one, that makes you the younger one by proxy,” Pidge says, waving it aside. “The why’s not important. What’s important is if you’re the younger sibling, you’ve gotta _act_ like the younger sibling. It’s easy to get overshadowed, even by accident and when they don’t mean to do it. So you’ve got to make your own accomplishments. Stand out! Show them who _you_ are!”   
  
Ryou raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t you disguise yourself as Matt? I seem to recall everyone mistaking you for him in that photo.” He’s pretty sure he’s remembering that right, at least.  
  
Pidge rolls her eyes in exasperation. “That was a disguise, just like you said. Different circumstances. Back home? I didn’t do anything like that. Matt and I got along great, don’t get me wrong, I love my brother. But it sucks when people always talk about you like you’re a matched set, you know? Or when people only ever talk about your older siblings’ achievements and don’t notice your own. I mean, Matt never _tried_ to do anything like that on purpose, but you can’t control what other people think or say. Sometimes people just don’t notice kid number two.”  
  
She shrugs. “But you? You don’t _need_ to hide as Shiro. You can be you. So stand out! Pick something totally different. Like…” She stares down at her shoes. “I don’t know, orange?”  
  
Ryou makes a face at that. “I don’t need to look like a garrison cadet again. Or…ever, I guess.”   
  
Pidge snorts. “Fair enough. Okay, what about something completely different from anything any of us have done? Metallic shades, maybe? Silver or gold?”   
  
That would certainly be different, but it doesn’t feel right. Silver doesn’t appeal now for the same reason gray didn’t last night—it matches his aging hair too much, and he doesn’t want to draw attention. And gold just feels too ostentatious. “No. I don’t think so.”   
  
Pidge grumbles. “You’re not making this easy, you know. You really _are_ overthinking it.”   
  
“I’ve been telling myself the same thing for over a day,” Ryou admits. He takes her now empty bowl and his own, and stacks them in the cleaning unit.   
  
“Well, think about it. You don’t have to do those colors, but the point is, don't think you _have_ to be a matched set with Shiro, got it?”  
  
“Got it,” Ryou promises, mostly for her benefit. Inwardly, her advice has only made things even more confusing for him, but he’s got enough of Shiro’s skill of hiding his thoughts to keep her from realizing that. “Now, if you’re full, go get some rest. Seriously, Pidge, you look dead on your feet.”  
  
She yawns. “Mm. Maybe a couple hours, before I get back to that project.” She hops down off of the counter. “Anyway. Good luck figuring out your color. I can’t wait to see it.”   
  
At this point, Ryou wonders if there’s anybody on the entire ship that _isn’t_ waiting to see it. 

* * *

  
“Are you sure you’re asking yourself the right questions?” Allura asks, later that day.  
  
It’s late afternoon, Castle Time, and Ryou’s about ready to tear his hair out in frustration over what _should_ be a simple decision. He needs to have a color chosen that evening, but he’s no closer to picking a color now than when he started. In fact, he feels even further from it than ever before. The advice of the other paladins, although well-meaning, have only muddled up his confused mess of thoughts even further. At this point, he has no idea where to go or how to think about picking his stupid armor color.   
  
That was why, in the end, he’d finally caved and tracked down Allura at the bridge, when no one else was around. Allura is the last paladin on the team to wear the Lion’s armor, but more than that, she’s the _only_ paladin on the team who’s had to make the same choice. Her pink wasn’t granted to her by a Voltron Lion. It’s something uniquely her decision, and hers alone.   
  
Ryou feels a bit stupid, having to ask her for advice over something that should be so simple. He really shouldn’t be bothering the princess, not when she has so many things on her shoulders to deal with already.   
  
But he’s also more than a little desperate, at this point. He has to have a color by tonight, or he’s going to have to show up to his spar against Shiro empty-handed and sheepish. And his pride, and his need to prove himself—well, at this point, it’s the only thing he’s one hundred percent sure is a Ryou thing, and not a Shiro thing, and he definitely doesn’t want to damage it.   
  
But Allura is understanding, and listens patiently as he explains his problem with his choices, and runs through the others’ advice. And when he’s done, she doesn’t laugh at his frustrations— she just offers her own thoughts.   
  
But those thoughts are puzzling ones. “What do you mean? What other questions would there be for armor color?” Ryou asks.   
  
“It seems, based on everything that you have described, that you’re merely thinking of material reasons, or reasons you believe you _should_ be doing something,” Allura observes. “And none of those resonate strongly with you. I believe what you should do is find what is important to _you_ , first. Find something that means something to you. Let the color come from that—not the other way around.”   
  
Ryou frowns. “What do you mean?”  
  
Allura gestures to the pink ‘v’ slashing across her chestpiece. “I chose this color because of what it means to my people, and to me. We wear this color to honor our fallen warriors. I wear it for them, and to honor the paladins of old, too—to honor their sacrifice, but also to remember that their mission was, and still is, to protect.”   
  
“Oh.” That was…a lot deeper than Ryou had realized, honestly. He’d never really thought about Allura’s color choice like that. He’d just assumed…well, that it was a preferred color, he supposes, or that she’d been matching her facial markings, or something.  
  
Allura smiles at him. “And, although it may not seem so, the rest of the paladins’ armor colors have just as deep a meaning.”   
  
“Besides just matching their respective Lions?” Ryou asks, raising an eyebrow.  
  
“Certainly. I do not know if you remember when we first met, and I explained the Lions and their preferences to you all?”  
  
Ryou does remember that, although it’s not technically his memory. But seeing the Black Lion hovering in the holographic stars before him had been a key memory in Shiro’s head, strong enough that not even Ryou’s illness had been able to rob him of it. “I remember.”  
  
“Then you will remember that each Lion chooses their paladin for a _reason._ Shiro’s black armor may match his Black Lion,” Allura says, “but it has a deeper meaning, too. It is the color of someone trustworthy to his men, and someone who exemplifies control and leadership. It is more than just a color, or a uniform. It is a symbol of what he stands for.”   
  
Ryou frowns at that, but this time, it’s more thoughtful. Even when he’d thought he was Shiro, and had worn the black armor, he hadn’t thought about what it meant quite so deeply. But…he also never really _had_ to. Leading, staying in control, protecting his team—that had been who he was. He hadn’t needed to think about it. It was just him, at the core.   
  
And maybe that’s what Allura is really getting at, when everything else is swept away. It’s not a matter of making an impression, or matching Shiro, or even just choosing based on superficial favorites. It’s not even about the color. It’s about what it _means._ It’s about what it says about _him._   
  
And as if to encourage his thoughts, Allura says, “You must decide what _you_ stand for, first. I think, once you do that, the color itself will come easily to you.”   
  
Ryou doesn’t think she’s wrong. But the question is a hard one.   
  
What _does_ he stand for? What’s most important to him? What does Ryou Shirogane _mean?_  
  
He steps back for a moment, and closes his eyes, and thinks about it. Burrows down blow the surface, down to his core, past any superficial definitions of what ‘belongs’ to Shiro versus what ‘belongs’ to him. At the end of the day, what’s most important to him, regardless of where it came from? What would he live for, or die for? What matters most in his short life?  
  
Making a difference, any way he can, even if it means subverting everything he was ever made for to throw it back in the enemy’s face. Protecting the team, and protecting Shiro, doing what he can to keep them safe. Overcoming adversity and fighting hard to never give in, not even in the face of crushing despair or grave illness. Seeing goals through to the end, no matter what it takes, no matter uphill the battle, no matter how impossible the odds. Finding a way to be his own person, not stealing Shiro’s life, no matter how many times he stumbles trying to do so. But also taking advantage of his unique niche, and his unique strength, to safeguard that life, even if it calls for the sacrifice of that individuality.   
  
No wonder everything had been so confusing. Ryou was never trying to be a matched set to Shiro, and was never trying to steal his place. But he’s not trying to make himself a polar opposite just to get away, either, and he still finds value in many of those things that are ‘Shiro.’ He’s somewhere in the middle. He needs to be his own person, and to learn who that is—but he also needs to be able to mirror Shiro, so he can use that similarity to protect him, in a way nobody else can.   
  
It’s an odd sort of duality, for Ryou. But even if he’s still learning who he is—even if Ryou Shirogane is still a work in progress—this feels like it fits.   
  
And suddenly, just like that, he has an idea for his armor.  
  
He opens his eyes, and Allura is smiling at him knowingly. “It seems you’ve made a breakthrough.”   
  
“I think so,” he says. “Thanks, princess. Your advice is the first to actually work.”   
  
“It is a tricky decision to make,” Allura says, “but I am happy to have been of assistance. I look forward to seeing your choice—and hearing what it means to you.”   
  
For the first time, Ryou doesn’t actually dread the thought of everyone learning his color, and there’s an actual spring in his step as he heads for the door to track down Coran.  
  


* * *

  
  
“Can it be done?” he asks Coran, two vargas later, after explaining his idea.  
  
“With a little bit of tweaking,” Coran says, snapping his mustache. “It might take a little longer to generate the armor, but as long as you plan in advance, I don’t see how it would be a problem. I’ll write up the data for you now, and it should be able to go by tomorrow morning.”   
  
“Just in time,” Ryou agrees. “My spar with Shiro will be in the afternoon. This should be good to go by then.”   
  
“Then let’s get it started,” Coran says, bringing up a few holographic displays to begin creating the armor. “And let me just say, Ryou—I think your choice is fitting. As the first to know your pick.”  
  
Ryou smiles. “Thanks. It only took two days and beating my head against a wall to get there.”   
  
“But you figured it out in the end,” Coran says. “And that’s the important part, I’d say.”  
  
He’s definitely not wrong. And for the first time since all of this started, Ryou can’t wait to share his choice with the others.   
  
Starting, of course, with Shiro.

* * *

  
  
Ryou steps onto the training deck at the designated varga, and isn’t surprised to find that Shiro is already there, decked out in his own black armor. He grins as he jogs forward to meet Shiro in the center, helmet under one arm. “Hey! Ready to help me break in this armor?”  
  
Shiro turns around at the call. He blinks once at Ryou, and then smiles. “Hey. You match your arm now.”   
  
“That’s the idea.” After several movements of deliberation, and two quintents of mild panic, Ryou had finally settled on a green shade for his armor. It’s much lighter than Pidge’s primary green—a paler, lighter color that matches the glow of his Olkari arm exactly. Aesthetically, it looks nice enough, differentiates him from _all_ of the paladins, and works well with his arm and weapon.  
  
But the color had really come from what he meant to himself, just as Allura had suggested. Getting his Olkari arm had been, for all intents and purposes, the final sign of his rebirth. He’d been given a new identity when Shiro had returned, and he’d been reformed after his illness had broken so many things in him. That arm, and everything that came after, was an indication of what kind of person he was learning to be. Someone who was ranged, and a trained diplomat; someone who was _slightly_ smaller and physically weaker than his genetic predecessor, but no less dangerous for it; someone who was just different enough to no longer be a carbon copy. That color comes from something that is uniquely his. And maybe he hasn’t finished figuring out what the rest of him will be—but it’s Olkari green, and if they can be adaptive, Ryou can be, too. It’s a symbol for what he could still be just as much as what he is.   
  
Most of that probably isn’t obvious to Shiro, but he seems to approve anyway. “It’s a good choice. You definitely stand out compared to me.”   
  
“Sometimes,” Ryou agrees. “And sometimes…” He lifts his Olkari arm, and taps the pale green ‘v’ on his chest. Darker color flows out from the point where his fingers touch, coating the pale green on his chest, shoulders, gauntlets, boots and helmet, until his coloration is nearly black.  
  
Shiro stares. Ryou grins a little. “Neat, right? It only works when I do it.” He wiggles his Olkari fingers. “That way, even if I get knocked out or manhandled under cover as you, nobody could tell the difference.”   
  
Shiro’s stare slowly melts into a frown. “I thought you said the black armor made you uncomfortable,” he says, clearly not happy. “You said it was too easy to fall in line. To forget you were _you._ Why would you do this to yourself?”  
  
“It’s not exactly the same as yours,” Ryou says. “Look.” He holds out one of his gauntlets against Shiro’s. When they’re right next to each other, it’s easier to see that while Shiro’s is a deep, matte black, Ryou’s is more of a very dark purple—so dark it’s nearly black, but distinguishable against the real thing.   
  
“It’s impossible to really tell the difference unless we’re right next to each other,” Ryou says, after giving Shiro a moment to process it. “And at that point, if I _am_ standing right next to you, the ruse has probably fallen through, anyway. But if it comes to it, if I have to, I can cover for you. Even spur of the moment.”   
  
Because _that_ had been a part of Ryou, too, and part of so much of his confusion. Even if he _is_ trying to distinguish himself as his own person, and figure out who he is, he’s also _this._ He’s a clone of Shiro that was made to subvert his predecessor, but now that he has those skills, those weapons, he _will_ use it to protect what the Galra wanted to destroy. This is a way for him to rise from the ashes of everything the Galra had wanted him to be, and reject everything he was made for. This is where his stubbornness, his determination, his desire to do the right thing, his need prove himself for what he is, all comes from. And it’s a part of himself that he can’t deny, either.   
  
Shiro’s still frowning as he looks up from the gauntlets to focus on the deep purple ‘v’ across Ryou’s chest. “We still haven’t talked about plans for this, yet. I’m still not really comfortable with you doing this, at all.”   
  
“I know,” Ryou says. “But I figured it would be good to have it ready, just in case. And…well, Allura gave me some good advice on the color. She said it had to mean something to _me_. And this is a part of me and what I can do, too.”  
  
He taps the ‘v’ on his chest again, and the deep black color recedes, revealing the pale green once more. “But I don’t need to be that, today. For now, I’m just me. So.” He grins at Shiro. “That spar? I’m thinking beating you in a few matches will prove I’m more than capable of going on this mission tomorrow.”   
  
Shiro seems a little relieved when the color changes back to green, but then he snorts. “Beat me? I guess it’s good to have goals.”   
  
“Please. I know all of your moves. You don’t know all of mine. This is an easy win for me.”   
  
“Let’s see you prove it, then,” Shiro says, stepping back into a waiting stance.   
  
Ryou grins as he slips on his helmet. “I will,” he promises, dropping into his own ready stance.   
  
And they spar. 


End file.
